First the mountains sunk under the oceans, then the skies collapsed. And then the murders began.
No place is more like home than,
Me against his heart,
In the warmth of an embrace.
Her emerald, almond shaped eyes shone in the dimly lit Cafe and her wheezy breaths reverberated throughout the sparsely filled Cafe.
Her unblinking eyes kept staring at me filled with a foreign emotion unknown to my troubled soul. As she took a step towards me, I moved backwards.
Her puffed up eyes begged for forgiveness but my stone cold heart remained rigid, unyielding to love.
She opened her chapped lips to say something but no words came out. It's hard to repent for mistakes you once took as decisions.
No words came out of my parched throat either and for a few moments a mother and her daughter stood in deafening silence, only separated by several feet and two decades.
And then as if she had found her voice she said, " I'm sorry."
She continued as she saw the shift in my emotions, as my fragile features softened.
"I shouldn't have left you behind. Oh you don't know how much I missed you. My heart always yearned for your presence. I love you so much."
Now she was standing before me her old wrinkled hands held my trembling ones.
Part of me wanted to embrace her and forget the pain and the heartache she had caused. But whenever I looked at her face I saw my sisters lifeless face in bathtub, jets of crimson blood flowing down her slender arms. And my father crashing on the ground, drinking away his sorrows and my own misery at being a reject. A girl whose mother had abandoned her when she was just two.
Clenching my jaws and putting on a facade to hide my conflicted emotions. I took a step away from her, she winced in pain as if I had slapped her across the face. I closed my eyes trying to erase the image from my head and without turning back I left.
I could hear her apologies even when I was two streets away, her words continued to echo in my mind late that night. I was held under the grasp of insomnia asking me to reconsider my harsh decision.
The glass shards of the broken whiskey bottle glistened under the pale moonlight. The man with the emerald almond shaped eyes sat by a grave that reeked of death and decay. The phrase “I died while I was still alive” was imprinted on the tombstone of the gravestone that was the home to his deceased lover’s remains. His shivering hands covered his tear streaked face. As his weary eyes shifted to the starless sky the moon was replaced her blurry face enveloped in an eerie mist, which was glowing brighter. Shaken he moved back and a moan of anguish escaped from him as he placed his chapped lips to suck at the blood that oozed out of his palm. His pupils widened and heart rate quickened as her glowing angelic features danced before his eyes. Her pale slender arm was outstretched as if trying to draw him into her. A raspy cough escaped his parched throat his fragile frame shook under the burdens of his sorrows. The wind lashed at his tear streaked face as he closed his eyes and wished upon the shooting star to be taken away from the vicious world to the nothingness of death, to be reunited with his lover.
What if were to compare you to a summer's day?
You are more lovely, like the pungent roses that bloom in spring,
Summers beauty is fragile and will eventually deplete,
Summer afternoons fade away into winter blizzards,
Sometimes the sun is a blazing ball of scorching heat,
And sometimes it's shrouded in grey murky clouds,
And the death of mortal beauty is inevitable,
By fate or the storms and tsunamis brought by nature,
But the beauty etched to your soul is everlasting,
It will not be consumed with the passing of time,
Your soul will not be prey to death,
As part of your beauty is preserved in these words,
As long as men will live and breathe and read,
These words will live on and speak of your beauty.
The Bastard Child
I winced as her long slender fingers struck my face, tears streamed down my face and my legs wobbled under the weight of my sorrows.
"Can't you do anything right, you good for nothing piece of shit" she bellowed.
My sweaty hands shook and a shiver ran through my spine even at that hot summer afternoon. Her words struck me as lightening and my sobs became the only noise in the hallway apart from her distinct shouts.
From the corner of my eyes I could make out the amused expression on her son's faces. Jagged pieces of the broken porcelain vase still littered the pearl white marble floor.
"No food for you tonight, you bastard and I don't want to see your face. Take her to the attic."
With these words I was ushered into a small room located adjacent to the terrace, reeking of decay and the dwelling for filthy rats.
I curled into a ball in a corner overlooked by the window through which light penetrated from the full moon, my sole companion for the night. Sleep was sporadic and fitful, my eyes fluttered open from the nightmares more than once.
Dreams of having my skin scraped of by my mistress or again getting boiling water poured over my hands interrupted my sleep.
Sometimes my mother visited me and part of me cherished seeing her, she never spoke but her emerald almond shaped eyes always looked at me, her arms always held me even when the world broke out in the cries of bastard child. When the dream ended her absence left a throbbing ache in my chest.
Tonight in my dream, I was waiting for my father on the doorstep, just before the outbreak of dawn and the minutes turned into hours but he never came and the sun never rose.
I missed her and my father who came, on the third of every second month and with him tagged along his children, the lawful ones. I begged to him to take me back home and then his new family spoke to me of the squalor they are living in, of the lack of space in their homes for me.
Menelaus, the tyrant
“Off with his head,” exclaimed Menelaus.
The executor a potbellied, crimson cheeked, plump looking man nodded his head at the king then offered a brief sympathetic look to the mass of people.
Hastily, he raised the glinting blade of the machine as the soldiers forced the traitor onto the wooden surface of the high rise guillotine.
“Any last words,” asked the executor monotonously.
The traitor nodded his head, a sudden tranquility replaced the fatigue on his face. He cleared his throat and began,
“I would like to thank you for your support,” his eyes darted among the faces into the crowd not long enough for eye contact.
“Now I won’t take names but I think you all know who you all are. I am sorry for your loss but the war is not over, it will continue till either we perish in our purpose or succeed in-“
“That’s enough” boomed Menelaus, anger shadowing his placid features.
But now the traitor was yelling,
“The revolution has not ended, it has just began.”
Soon shouts of “long live the revolution” erupted from the crowd.
Anger boiled out of the king filling his head draining him of his humanity and he ordered his soldiers to fire. The sounds of gunshots and terror filled screams corrupted the air that was thick with fear.
Eventually, the crowd dispersed leaving behind the traitor on the elevated ground with twelve bullet wounds in him, one for each person he left behind. But he was not the only one, dead bodies littered the ground dyed a bright red.
With a smile of satisfaction the king returned to his palace build on the mountain of people he had killed with a wave of his cruel hands.
That night it rained as the mourners wept on the blood soaked ground, as if the sky was mourning the loss of the dead and the winds were howling in anguish.
When you were young
When you were young and blue and full of sadness,
And nodding by the window you took a look at your phone,
And slowly read the text messages you received last night,
The words ignited an immortal fire in your soul;
How many moments of unforgettable memories you made,
And how you lost your brand new phone one sunny morning,
But one benevolent man returned the lost piece of your soul,
And you loved the gadget even with its broken screen;
The cracked screen reflected the glowing lights of the lounge,
You murmured a sad apology to your furious mother,
She glared at you through her golden rimmed glasses,
And you hid your tear streaked face in your hands.
The Blue Haired Girl
Three and a half months after waking up from a comma, Lou Xavier suffers from Amnesia. He often takes long strolls in the hallways of his mind, often seeing golden rimmed frames, with blurred faces shrouded in darkness. However one day after returning his night shift he spots a girl with blue hair at the Midnight Express, her face brings back long forgotten memories but before he can reach her she is lost in the hustle and bustle. But that's not the last time he encounters her, the same night he sees her in his garage staring at his window familiarity written all over her face, and a note clutched in her hand.
Beautiful Broken Creatures
Her mother spent her nights cradled in the arms of twinkling stars,
to escape the horrors that dwelled in her head.
Her father broke bone china crockery, bones and limbs,
to pacify the chaos in his soul.
Her sister binged on laxatives and purged all day long,
to silence the girl mocking her in the mirror.
Her brother was drunk on solitude and incarcerated in his own silence,
believing that love was the only cure to restore his bliss.
Her friends inhaled nicotine in the ruins of their long gone childhood,
to bring back the carefree days of cosmic freedom.
Her every loss had inflicted a crack on her sinking vessel,
and now she too was drowning in the sea of broken promises,
She had tried saving the creatures who were destined to be doomed,
but she bruised herself while picking up the remains of these Beautiful Broken Creatures.